The Offer (6 page)

Charles eyed his sister thoughtfully, wondering why he had brought up the matter now, after so many years. Of course he knew why. After their good friend Rohan Carrington, Baron Mountvale, had married, Phillip had fallen into a funk. He'd said once to Charles last fall, “Rohan is happy. Happy. Can you believe it? And Susannah is happy as well. Just maybe sometimes there is something that is honest and good between a man and a woman.”

Charles said now, “Very well, Margaret, but you must promise to keep this knowledge tucked under your chestnut hair. Most people know a little of what occurred, but not everything. Rohan Carrington is the only other one to know the whole of it.”

“I promise, Charlie.”

Miss Elliott hit a high F. A champagne goblet trembled on a nearby table.

“Phillip asked Elaine to marry him and she agreed. The date was set for the following April, for no marriage could take place during Phillip's year of mourning for his father. It is too long ago for you to recall it, but during the fall of 1809 there were many violent skirmishes on the Peninsula. Phillip felt it his duty to rejoin his regiment, over Elaine's objections. I sometimes wonder,” Charles added, “how we all could have been so wrong. A bloody pack of fools we were.
Phillip returned to London on leave in early February to resign his commission and set Dinwitty Manor in order for its new mistress. He had changed somewhat, I can remember thinking that, as if he had been catapulted too quickly into manhood. Remember, he was now only twenty-one years old.”

“Yes, a veritable young lad for a gentleman and a spinster for a lady. Grossly unfair.”

“That's as may be but not to the point.”

“Do you know, Charles, I have sometimes thought that Phillip's eyes mirror his deepest thoughts. I've seen laughter in his eyes when there was none about his mouth, and sadness too. I've never known what to make of it.”

Charles had no idea what she was talking about. Better yet, he didn't want to know. He said, “I'll never forget the night he came to my lodgings on Half Moon Street, vilely drunk, his face so white and set that I thought he'd been in a battle with the devil himself. I was scared to death.” Charles spoke more slowly now as he remembered Phillip's young face, his mouth flattened in bitter humiliation, his eyes cold and dead, mirroring his disillusion. He could still hear his voice, cold as ice. “Elaine wants to wed now, Charlie, not in April as we had planned.”

Charles had stared at his friend. What to say to that? Phillip was so young. None of his friends wanted him to wed. He said carefully, “Is it that she missed you more than you had believed? Surely this is a good sign.”

Phillip's laugh was low and mean. “Miss me? God, that's a rare jest. Give me a glass of brandy, Charles, and be quick about it.”

Silently, Charles moved to the sideboard, poured brandy from the crystal decanter, and handed it to his friend. Phillip tipped the brandy down his throat and,
with a growl of fury, hurled the empty glass toward the grate, where it shattered.

Charles was now seriously frightened. “Dear God, Phillip, what happened? What's wrong with you?”

The viscount raised his eyes and said in a voice so flat and soft that Charles had to lean close to make out his words, “Elaine—my Ice Maiden—is pregnant, my friend. It took me quite a while to pry it out of her. Rest assured that I'm not the father.”

Charles reeled back on his heels. “But who?”

“Exactly my question to dear Elaine, which, of course, she tearfully refused to answer. It wasn't very noble of me, but I waited patiently, then followed her. There is no doubt in my mind that the father of her child is her wastrel cousin, Roger.” Phillip paused a moment, his eyes turning hard. “Of course he will never know the sex of his child, for I am going to kill him.”

Charles sucked in his breath. Of a certainty he had seen Elaine much in her cousin's company, but he was, after all, part of her family. To the eyes of the polite world, there had been nothing questionable about her behavior.

“What do you intend to do about Elaine?”

“That panting little bitch?” He began to laugh, furiously wild laughter. “If she is an ice maiden, Charles, I ask you, what is every other lady? Well, my friend, I'll tell you what they are—sluts who have no honor, who will part their thighs to the closest male of their acquaintance. I thank God that I have seen the truth in time to escape. Never will I fall into such a trap again.”

Charles shook the viscount's shoulders. “You're drunk as a loon, Phillip, and you don't know what you're saying. Come to bed. We'll decide what is to
be done on the morrow, when you've a clear head and your wits about you.”

“No, Charles. What must be done will be done now, tonight. I am off to kill that bastard, Roger. You will act as my second?”

“But the scandal, Phillip. Have you thought of what this would do to your mother? To Elaine's family? My God, man, you're the Viscount Derencourt.”

Phillip regarded Charles for a brief moment, then said softly, “If I do not have my honor, Charles, I have nothing. Most likely, all of society will damn me to hell.” He rose and shrugged into his greatcoat. “I'm not too drunk to get it done. Are you coming, Charles?”

Margaret was shaking. That such a thing could happen appalled her.

“There's more, isn't there, Charlie? You've trusted me thus far, please, you must tell me the rest of it.”

“Needless to say, I accompanied Phillip to Roger Travers's lodging. Both he and his valet were gone. I remember that his housekeeper, a nervous little scarecrow of a woman, showed Phillip a note written by Roger saying that he'd left on an extended visit to the Continent. As you know, Margaret, there was no scandal. As for Elaine, obviously, she rid herself of the child. It is my opinion that she must have harmed herself irrevocably, for she has never borne Bufford an heir. Phillip left immediately for the Peninsula. It was Elaine who inserted a retraction of their engagement in the
Gazette.
The following June, she married Bufford. The rest, my dear Margaret, you know.”

“That horrible bitch. Goodness, I should like to challenge her to a duel.”

Charles took his sister's small hand into his. “What's really strange is that Elaine hates Phillip. She knows he has never said a word about what happened, but it seems that she can't remain civil around him. I know
she tells tales about things he's supposedly done. Now, I know that you will guard this secret. Phillip would wring my neck if he knew I'd told you.”

“It's because of Elaine that he's never married?”

Charles was silent for several moments, gazing toward Teresa, who had displayed herself charmingly at the pianoforte. “Perhaps such an experience would shape the lives of some men, embitter them, make them hate and distrust women, but not Phillip. He's much too perceptive a man to allow Elaine's despicable behavior to jade his view of the entire female sex. I at least hope to heaven that it's true.”

“But why hasn't he married?”

“I'm not married either, Margaret, and Phillip and I are the same age, twenty-six. Goodness, woman, give us time. We've just begun to ripen, as Rohan Carrington says.”

“What else does Rohan say?”

“Ladies ripen early. They must either wait for the boys to ripen or pluck the older ones.”

“Yes, that makes sense,” Margaret said, and punched her brother's arm. “But will either of you ever marry, Charlie?”

“I believe I shall be a bachelor, Margaret. As for Phillip, I can only say that he is a very careful man. Only time will tell.”

“I'm so very happy. Marriage is amazing. I just never considered that there were so many things I was missing. There is so much more to life when there is another who cares about you and wants to make you happy. I just want you to know what it's like. Do reconsider, Charlie, do.”

“I'll think about it. Promise me you won't tease Phillip. You won't make any veiled references to anything I've told you.”

“I'm trustworthy, Charlie. I promise.”

Charles's attention was drawn to the sound of Miss Elliott's raised voice. “No, I have no wish to play whist,” he heard her say to the dowager Countess of Mowbray. “Viscount Derencourt is my partner and I shall wait for him before I play.”

Charles said, “Actually, Lady Mowbray is very lucky. Teresa is a disaster at whist. I had the misfortune to partner her once. She trumped my ace of spades. I wanted to wring her neck. I remember that Phillip was watching. He just laughed.”

“Another ice maiden, I think,” Margaret said, patted her brother's arm, and took herself off to partner the countess in whist.

She whispered against the hollow of his throat, “Please, build up the fire, it is so very cold.”

Phillip pulled Sabrina's body more tightly against him. He felt her low cracked breathing against his neck; he felt the pain each of those breaths cost her. Hair had worked its way loose from the braid he'd fashioned for her, tickling his nose, curling around his jaw. He smoothed her hair, moving his head slightly on the pillow. She followed, even closer now, trying to get inside him, he thought, to find his warmth and burrow into it. Her hands were clutching at his shirt, her legs pressing as hard as she could against his. He felt desire for her. It had happened before when he'd stripped off her clothes, when he'd bathed her. It didn't matter. He again ignored it. He was a man, not a randy boy. He treated it like any other discomfort that couldn't be changed, he controlled it, focusing on Lucius, remembering how he'd held his brother, just as he was holding Sabrina now, letting his heat flow into his body. But unlike Lucius, Sabrina was very small. He knew he must be nearly smothering her, covering nearly all of her, and what his body didn't touch, his large hands did. He rubbed his chin very lightly against the top of her head. He had no intention ever again of leaving London during future Christmas holidays. Then he realized if he hadn't been here, in this
particular spot, she would have died. He didn't want her to die. He realized more than anything he wanted to see her smile, see life in those incredible violet eyes of hers, hear her speak, not necessarily telling him important things, just occasional thoughts she had. It didn't matter. He just wanted her well. He kissed her again. No, no more complaining. He'd never believed in an outside force that changed men's lives for no good reason, hurling them in an entirely new direction. No, he'd always reckoned that a man was master of his own destiny, until something he himself set into motion, be it wise or stupid, changed the course of his life. Well, maybe he'd been wrong. Fate had flung him into Sabrina's path and he'd accepted the responsibility of her. He wondered how much further his life would now change as a result.

He awoke the next morning sweating and stiff. He nearly groaned aloud at the cramp in his shoulder. Then he felt like giving a shout of sheer pleasure when he realized Sabrina was also sweating. Her fever had broken. “Sweat all you like, sweetheart,” he said, kissing her temple. He gently eased himself away from her and out of the bed. She immediately rolled into a small ball, her sleep unbroken. He stood quietly, listening to her quiet, deep breathing.

“This time I've won,” he said aloud to the silent room. He stood a moment longer, watching the rise and fall of her breasts, listening to her breathing. He felt happier at that moment than he had in many a long month. Actually he hadn't been this happy since Rohan and Susannah had visited Dinwitty Manor and they'd figured out the clues to the treasure. Yes, he was immensely pleased with himself.

The room was cold. He built up the fire, always one eye on her to see that she still breathed, to see that she still sweated.

While she slept, Viscount Derencourt heated water to wash his clothes in the kitchen. First though, he bathed himself, sighing at the feel of being clean again. He eyed the pile of dirty clothes, but knew there was no hope for it. Without a second thought, he dumped the clothes into the water and washed them as best he could. He grinned, picturing Dambler's face were he to see his master scrubbing his fine white lawn shirt in a rather dirty tub of water in front of a kitchen fire.

He hung his clothes to dry over the backs of chairs that sat around the big block wooden table in the kitchen. He dressed himself in his only remaining clean shirt and britches and went back upstairs to check on his patient.

She still slept, curled up on her side away from him. Her brow was cool, but her dressing gown was damp with sweat. Damnation, he hadn't thought to check. He stripped her, hoping she wouldn't awaken. Because he was a man, because he simply couldn't help himself, he looked at her, tried to touch her as little as possible because he wasn't completely lost to good sense, and gritted his teeth. But she was lovely, particularly since there was a flush on her cheeks.

The hair on her woman's mound was just a bit darker than the hair on her head. He wanted to touch her, touch her woman's flesh. He shouldn't be thinking such thoughts. Very well, he'd think about nonsexual parts of her. Her hands were very white, her fingers long. He imagined she played the pianoforte. There, that wasn't badly done of him. Not to mention her breasts that were actually very nice and—no, that wasn't well done of him either. He stared at her feet. Nice feet, arched, probably quite useful, as good feet went.

Then he laughed at himself, he couldn't help it. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he said. “I'm trying to do the
best I can. Please forgive me when I fall into these lapses.”

She moaned softly in her sleep, which was no answer, and made him think about sex.

Phillip straightened the man's white shirt over her, smoothing it down. It came halfway down her thighs, surely modest enough. He supposed he'd have to wash the two dressing gowns. No, he didn't think velvet could be washed. He looked down at her quiet face. He knew that face now; it was precious to him. It was odd, but it was true. He had no idea if she was a shrew, a devious liar, a saint. When they'd spoken, she'd seemed well enough, witty even, her voice soft and cultured, but he knew from long experience that she could just as easily be another virago like Elaine.
Elaine.
He hadn't thought about her in a very long time. In fact, the only time he ever thought about her was when he came face-to-face with her at a gathering in London. He rather hoped she was miserable, she deserved to be.

She still slept. Food, he thought, it was time to make something. He made bread. The two loaves of something that could pass for bread, maybe, he eased from the old iron oven. He swelled with pride. It didn't matter that they were flat and burned on the corners. It didn't matter that any sort of bread wasn't supposed to have corners. It was edible and he had made it. He was a fine human being. He could survive. No, it didn't matter a bit that the two loaves reminded him of the gray quarry stones his workers hauled from the sandstone pit near Dinwitty Manor to repair the ancient Elizabethan watchtower wall. They would use the same quarry stone when he finally managed to get started on his new crenellated tower that he'd spent most of the past summer designing. However, he still hadn't gotten it built, or even started it, probably
because he'd been so shaken up by what had happened in Scotland with Rohan and Susannah Carrington. No, he wouldn't think about that bizarre experience. He allowed himself to remember all of it only late at night when he was alone, drinking brandy in his own library, staring into his own fire, seeing things no man should even imagine.

He broke off a burned corner. It didn't taste wonderful. On the other hand, he wasn't starving, and he knew from experience that starving indeed made a difference. His mouth was still spoiled from memories of food Cook made him at Dinwitty Manor. It didn't matter. It was nourishing and it could be eaten, if one was desperate enough, and surely both he and Sabrina were desperate enough.

She was still asleep. He wasn't worried, no, sleep was the best thing for her. He carefully wrapped his two loaves of bread in coarse cloths he found stacked on a shelf in the kitchen. Then he shrugged on his greatcoat and went to the stable to see to Tasha. The moment he stepped outside, the howling wind whipped against him, sending snow in his face. But the blizzard couldn't last for much longer, no storms in England ever did. He looked toward the path that wound its way to the front of the house, a white ribbon. No one would be coming for a while yet, not for at least several more days.

Tasha whinnied when he stepped into the stable. He rubbed her nose, laughed when she butted into his chest. “Yes, I know you're bloody bored, but there's no hope for it. Just a few more days, then you can gallop your way out of here.” He looked down at the nearly empty bin of oats. “Actually, in another couple of days, you're going to be too fat to do anything except groan.”

Phillip refilled the bin with hay, scooped up a
bucketful of snow that would soon melt in the warmth of the stable into fresh water, sang Tasha a song, then walked slowly back to the house. The snow was nearly to the top of his boots. He shook his head and smiled. Damn, if Sabrina didn't wake up soon, whole-witted, he would soon be talking to the furniture. He just hoped if that happened, the furniture wouldn't talk back.

He'd nearly finished righting the havoc he'd created in the kitchen when he heard a soft thumping sound from overhead. He tore off the white apron in an instant and was up those stairs, two at a time, in three seconds flat, his heart pounding.

He pushed open the partially closed bedchamber door and stopped cold in his tracks. Sabrina stood next to the bed, clutching the bedpost for support. Her face was white, her breathing harsh, her braid flopped over her shoulder, oily and lank.

“What the devil are you doing out of bed?”

She stared at him, her face whiter than the man's shirt she was wearing.

“I can't get back into bed just yet.”

“Why ever not?”

“I got up because I need to relieve myself. Do you know where the chamber pot is?”

“As a matter of fact I do. I wish you'd called me instead of trying to make the journey by yourself.”

“But I don't even know who you are. Well I do, but I'd forgotten. You're a man. I don't want you to help me relieve myself. That wouldn't be right. It would be utterly mortifying.”

“All right then. Let me help you over behind the screen. Call me when you're done so I can put you back to bed. I'll bet you have about as much strength as a flea.”

“That's just about it,” she said.

When she was back in bed again, the covers to her throat, he sat down beside her. Out of habit, he laid his palm on her forehead. “Not even a whisper of a fever. You're just fine now. Now, don't get me wrong. You're going to have to rest because you've been quite ill, but you will get well again.”

“You know my name,” she said, those strange colored eyes of hers on his face.

He wanted to tell her that he also knew about the small heart-shaped birthmark on her left buttock, but he didn't. He just smiled at her. “Yes, and I even know that your nickname is Bree. Do you remember that I'm Phillip? I don't have a nickname unless some enemy calls me a bastard.”

“I remember now. Where are we?”

He smiled down at her and began to smooth loose tendrils of hair back behind her ear. “You have got your wits back again, thank the good Lord. Now, as to where we are, I haven't a clue. I'm a stranger to this particular part of Yorkshire. Do you remember what I told you? I found you lying in the forest in the snow. I'd passed this hunting box and brought you back here. We've been here two days now, wherever here is.”

“What were you doing in the forest, my lord?”

“My lord? Now how would you know that I was a lord, a merchant, or otherwise?” Had he told her he was Viscount Derencourt? He couldn't remember.

Her eyes fell to his left hand, “You're wearing a signet ring. I'm not stupid or ignorant.”

Phillip smiled as he looked down briefly at the heavy ruby signet ring passed from father to son in the Mercerault family for nearly three hundred years. Not all that long a stretch of time compared to some of the great families of England, but still three hundred years seemed a powerful long number of years
to him. “You're observant, Sabrina. I remember now. Before, I only told you my family name. Let me give you my best introduction. I'm Phillip Mercerault, Viscount Derencourt of Dinwitty Manor, near Oxford.”

Phillip thought he saw a flash of recognition in her eyes, but she lowered her lashes before he could be certain. “Now, I know your first name is Sabrina. Who are you?”